


Dumpsterdiving In The City With No Name

by Corvid_Knight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, implied dirk/john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:03:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Jake's been looking for something, and he's finally found it. Things still might not turn out how he needs them to.





	Dumpsterdiving In The City With No Name

The first thing you feel when you find the head in the dumpster is crushing relief. Which is awful, isn't it? That you'd be this _happy_ to have your hand brush against gel-stiff hair rather than sink into rotting vegetable matter, or slide through the stinking remains of someone else's meal. It's awful, you know it is.

God. 

You find that it's—he's—surprisingly clean, once you cradle the head against your filthy shirt and climb back out of the garbage. You might actually be worse off, aesthetically; there's blood crusted at the corner of his mouth, shades still in place but cracked and askew, skin ashy pale under the freckles, but he's _recognisable._

(That makes it worse. It's odd. You didn't think it could get worse.) 

You're less presentable than the head is. You've been digging through dumpster after dumpster for what might be forever; there's a nasty scrape along your arm where you caught yourself on a protruding metal edge. Both knees ache, scraped bloody from more-or-less falling out of garbage receptacles and onto rough unyielding cement. There's trash and rotting food and less mentionable substances streaked and splattered and caked into every centimeter of your skin, soaked into your hair and ground into your clothing. You lost your glasses hours ago, when you lost your balance trying to haul yourself up into a bin; everything further than a few feet away blurs into an impressionist painting, with no more meaning than inkblots on a psychologist's notecard. 

His face is perfectly clear, though. You hold your prize up with both hands, studying him for a moment. Waiting for someone to speak to you. 

After a few seconds, you remember that at some point you've lost every piece of tech Hal could have spoken to you over. When you remove the sharp-edged shades, tucking the head under your arm for a moment and putting them on your own face instead, you see nothing but a darker, even more smeared version of the grungy alley you're standing in.

No red text on the glass. 

Which means no help from the AI. You hope he just...needs a charge, or something. Dirk's told you he gets power from kinetic and solar energy, and it _did_ take you a long time to find him here...plenty long enough for a battery to go dead. 

Too long. 

The shades go in your pocket, carefully tucked away so he'll be safe to give him back later. You raise the head in both hands again, staring into those dull orange eyes. 

(They've never been so dull before.) 

(You're afraid. You're so afraid.) 

His skin is cool, which is also new, and the blood on his mouth doesn't simply wipe off this time. You keep your hands free of the ragged torn flesh of his neck—you know from experience that touching it would be even less pleasant than the rest of this—but you somehow know that it'll be sticky and almost dry if you do, the blood no longer liquid at all. 

Oh, god. It took you so long to get here. So long. So _goddamn_ long. 

(Too long?) 

No. Stop thinking that. 

You know the script here. You've done this before. All you need to do is play your part, and it'll all be over. 

The head smells like decay, when you bring it closer to your face, and you gag and almost drop it. This close you can see the bruising around the eyes, how the blood's clotted dark and ugly just under his skin. 

Death. You see death, in him. In it. You can't bring yourself to think of this piece of bone and flesh as _him._

But it is him, you remind yourself, and you find that spark of hope deep in your chest, the light that still hasn't been extinguished in the hours and days and months that you've been rummaging through refuse searching for your love, and you lift the head again. You gag when you breathe in, there's nothing you can do to prevent that because he smells so _dead,_ but. 

You do it anyway. You kiss him.

You kiss him. Lips to lips, your eyes closing because your eyes _always_ close, feeling the touch of cold lifeless skin against your still-living skin. You kiss it, you kiss him, you kiss the severed head that smells of death and rot and garbage and you hold your breath, waiting. 

Nothing happens. 

You hold your breath, you don't let the kiss end, and _nothing happens._

When you're forced to breathe again by the burning in your lungs, the sound that you produce is a distressed sob. Dirk's head almost slips through your fingers as your legs go out from under you; as you collapse, you add another few scrapes to your already-battered legs. 

You cradle his head in your arms, sobbing so hard you really can't breathe now. 

This isn't supposed to happen. 

God, this isn't supposed to happen, you think, and as you think it the last bit of your hope slips away, that spark goes out. You can't be here without him. You _can't._ You can't be breathing, your heart can't be beating in your chest, you should lie down and die right here and now.

If you had your pistols you'd put a bullet into your useless brain. 

Your heart is beating. You hate it, but it's beating, so loud and fast you feel it in your ears, so overwhelming that it makes your vision swim. Or perhaps that's tears doing that. Either way, you close your eyes against it, and your heartbeat drowns out the desperate sounds of your weeping.

Then it recedes, and you're lying on your side, somewhere soft and warm, you're still crying, and a familiar voice is speaking softly to you. 

A very familiar voice. A very welcome one. 

"Dirk," you gasp, interrupting him halfway through whatever he's saying to calm you, "Dirk, oh god, _Dirk—_ " and then you absolutely cannot speak at all, twisting around to clutch at his shoulders, twist your hands up in his shirt, try to drag him closer or drag yourself closer to him. Either. Both. 

He lets you. He _helps_ you, pushing himself up to sit with you in his lap, held up to his chest, rocking you gently. He doesn't speak—this is one of the few situations that can strike Dirk silent. He wants to comfort you, knows you need him, but also doesn't have the faintest idea how to go about it. 

He knows to hold you, though. 

When your sobbing dies down a little, he presses his lips against the top of your head, rather than pull you up to kiss you properly. His voice is a murmur just above a whisper, quiet and intimate. "I'm sorry. I couldn't tell if you were having a nightmare or not—I can't ghost Mind anymore, not with you, and Heart doesn't let me _know_ what you're thinking. If I'd known it was that bad I would've had you awake in a second, before you started fucking _crying,_ I'm sorry..." 

If you leave him to himself, Dirk will keep talking. You know this. You still don't want to let him go or raise your head from his shirt, but a gentle headbutt gets him to at least pause, while you draw breath and order your words before speaking. 

"Don't take the blame, love." Damn. Your voice sounds as hoarse as if you were screaming in your sleep for him; you really do hope you weren't, even if there's no one here to hear but the two of you. "It w-wasn't even bad until I started crying, really." 

"Oh." He pulls you up, gently, and you let yourself stay limp in his hands as he kisses first your forehead, then each cheek, then finally your lips. 

Loving as it is, the action brings back a flash of the already-fading memory of the dream, and your eyes fill with tears again. And of course Dirk notices; in the moment before you squeeze your eyes shut, you see the way his brow furrows in concern. 

He takes another minute to process before he states the obvious, though. 

"It was about one of the times I died, wasn't it." And it is a statement, not a question. 

Which makes the tears come faster, even though you keep your eyes squeezed shut as you nod. You barely trust your voice, but you force out words anyway. "It—it was, and it wa—it wasn't...a city, love, w-we were in a city, one I've n-never seen—I lost—I _lost_ you, I couldn't find you, you weren't—I couldn't—Dirk, _Dirk_ —" 

The pain and panic of rummaging through garbage, searching for his head with no real concept of how long you'd been looking, that hits you again, turning his name into a softly pained wail. Dirk winces; you can feel it through his contact with you. Then he pulls you up, holds you tighter, kisses the top of your head as you bury your face in his soft shirt again. You think it must have been John's shirt once; none of Dirk's feel this soft. 

Dirk holds you, and shushes you without actually telling you to quiet down. He doesn't say anything about the wet patch you're making on his shirt. 

When you do quiet, he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to the palm before putting it on his own chest and flattening his hand over it. "Feel me?" 

His heartbeat. Of course. "Yes." 

"I'm here." 

"Yes." 

"All of me. My heart, my body, my mind, my soul, everything. I'm here with you. I'm alive." 

Your breath catches, because so often in your dreams he simply _isn't_ alive, but you answer him with almost no pause. " _Yes_. Alive. You're alive." 

"Lie down with me?" 

You nod. He steals another kiss as he pulls you down, this one warm and soft and tasting like cinnamon-flavored toothpaste. 

Even though your hand slipped away from his chest, you still feel Dirk's heartbeat. He's using his powers to make sure you're aware of it, that you're reminded of his solidity every moment you're here with him, and you love him for it. You love him for the care he takes with you, the way he loves you with a grace that belies how clumsy he can be when he tries to love how he thinks he should. 

You love him. 

The nightmares are part of that. 

But with him guarding your sleep like this, there won't be any more nightmares, not now. You are _safe_ , you know you are, and with that thought you close your eyes and curl up against the love of your life. 

Safe. 

You're safe. 

You are _safe._


End file.
